


Brand New

by middlemist



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Childhood, Clan Lavellan - Freeform, Eventual Sex, F/M, Fade Tongue, Flashbacks, Maybe - Freeform, Rating May Change, Romance, Romantic Angst, Slow Build, Spirits, clan history, let's see what i'm feelin, possibly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:17:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4130823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemist/pseuds/middlemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We were all young once."</p><p>Lavellan was only a child when the visage of a wolf saved her. She was raised to be a hunter; a killing machine. Solas was only a foolish young elf, who thought he knew everything.</p><p>But now she is older, with the entire world on her shoulders. And an old friend once told him he doesn't always have to be alone. </p><p>[The lives of Solas and Lavellan; takes place pre-DAI/throughout the events of the Inquisition; slightly AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beware the Dread Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurelie Lavellan is only just a child, but her mind is keener than most of the elders of her clan.

She was raised to be a hunter.

Cloaked in darkness under a crescent shadow of blood, she was a good one too, at that. Perhaps the best.

From age five, her body was a harness, strapped with pointed daggers and vials of tonics and poisons. For her sixth birthday, she was taught how to slick a blade with a toxin that could kill a nug in seconds, if executed properly, which it always was. She’d done so well that about half a year later, she was taken out on a hunting trip with the elder hunters, long before any of her peers had the chance to see fresh blood, slaying the beast of the forest, a snowy wyvern, and earning her position as a fully-fledged hunter of Clan Lavellan.

She swore a sacred oath to retain what she learned to do for her seventh birthday.

Not before long, Keeper Istimaethoriel and the rest of the elders began to call her _da'mi:_ “little blade.” She was swift, just as any of the older hunters, and as she grew older, she only became more and more deadly, her blade less and less little. She could pierce a druffalo’s heart directly from several leagues away; she knew exactly where to strike the ram’s meat to get the most tender cut. She became the most valued asset to the clan, a promise of the future, a gleaming glimpse into what was to become of their prosperity long after they’d perished themselves. If even a fraction of her _lethallin_ turned out to be less than a fraction of her talent, they’d leave the clan in calloused, yet capable hands.

Her mother, Tali’ah, had been a mage, her father nothing special. He was the Halla Keeper of their clan, an important task in its own right, though nothing of the same magnitude as neither his wife nor his daughter. He supposed it was only fitting that their little Aurelie grew up precocious, as her mother had; they were quite possibly similar in every way, separate in only the way they utilized their power. They shared the same golden hair, porcelain skin, and glassy blue orbs set in the same sweet, doe-like features. Together, they were a mystery; their almost droopy, wide set eyes looked sorrowful and tempestuous, somehow all at once. They were two sides of the same coin, the entire clan knew that; you’d be a fool to imagine otherwise.

***

The day Aurelie earned her _vallaslin_ , the sky cracked open and roared with murderous thunder. The rain cooled her face as Keeper Istimaethoriel carved the blood writing artfully, each stroke a blow of searing pain that seemed to rip the heavens open. Her entire clan sat around her and watched her patiently, eager to see if she could endure the pain at such a young age, just on the cusp of her 15th birthday. She had been one of the youngest _lethhallan_ in their clan’s history to receive the markings, and the idea that she could endure it with any degree of tolerance seemed like a novelty.

It was the proudest day of their lives, but still her parents clasped their hands together nervously, beads of sweat soaking through their clothes, mixing with the rainwater on their brows. Tali’ah remembered when she received the _vallaslin_ , a spiraling network of white branches on her cheekbones and forehead to honor the goddess Mythal. But she was nineteen when she received hers, a woman fully grown and already pregnant with Aurelie; her daughter was still a child, lithe and waifish, the shape of an arrow pulled back and ready to strike.

Though however young, her studies proved her a worthwhile student. She stayed out from dusk till dawn, meditating, fasting, blue eyes growing more and more sunken by the day, yet never straying from their course. She showed immeasurable restraint for a child, just as she showed magnificent courage when the Keeper’s ink scraped her skin, a pool of blood clotting her eyelashes in the place of tears.

Tali’ah sometimes joked that the first and last time she saw Aurelie cry was when she was brought into this world; times like these reminded her why.

Her father waited with shaking trepidation for her to cry out in searing pain, for the Keeper to stop midway and deem her unworthy. He remembered the own tragedy of his own vallaslin - it’d been raining, like it was today, and the sky had cracked him open. Personal experience had turned himself bitter, as only a few faded gray marks to honor the god Dirthamen remained on his forehead, a constant reminder of what he could not see through to the end; a scar, livid and incomplete.

His fears, however, were unsubstantiated. Aurelie finished with her eyes dry as when they began, skin caked with hardened burgundy blood. When she rose, her markings were washed clean, sterilized, and she was released to the clan with a roar of applause, louder that the cracks of lightning that shook the sky.

The clan treated her differently after that. Her peers were no longer her peers; she became an authority, an elder at only 15. The younger children looked to her even before their teachers when they wished to learn how to end a creature’s life. She was the expert on how to skin a fennec, or how to properly kill a nug. Girls her age no longer sought her out to braid hair with elfroot, but to kill the monsters lurking in the shadows, to slay their demons and to bring them back food when their bellies grew heavy with hunger. The moment she gained the blood writing, she lost a shred of her innocence; her childhood faded away as the marks healed, calloused over like a yellowing bruise.

Not only was she skillful with a blade, but she was smart, too. She had a dry, quick wit about her, one she’d likely inherited from her mother, as well as the ceaseless curiosity of her father. She was always asking questions, even when they themselves were taboo. In her studies of the Elven pantheon, Aurelie was notably well versed. She wasn’t particularly religious, but she honored her culture and found herself at least interested, if not pious. She knew more than most her age. She could recount the nine gods by name, recount their stories, and the design of their particular _vallaslin_. It was about a week into her studies in pursuit of the blood writing that she mustered the courage to ask one of the _Hahren_ a question that had been burning inside her.

“Why is it that there’s no blood writing to honor Fen’Harel?”

The _Hahren_ immediately eyed her with less surprise than suspicion, raising a thick gray brow. “You know the history of the Dread Wolf better than any of my pupils, girl,” she’d said. “You know what He did, in ancient times. Who would wish to honor the god that brought the destruction of _Arlathan?”_

She licked her lips, made dry by the _Hahren’s_ sudden jolt of anger towards her. “I-”

“-It is a foolish question, _da'mi,”_ she interrupts bitingly, venom dripping from her words. “You will not repeat it.”

“But, I-”

“Have I made myself quite clear?”

Aurelie stopped in her tracks, clamping her mouth shut before she spoke something she’d later regret. Sorrowfully, she nodded, swiftly prompting a sly smile from the elder.

The _Hahren_ nodded towards the child, an unspoken code of silence. Her cracked, thin lips formed the words Aurelie had heard from every elder countless times; a cautionary tale or a ghost story, made to spook young children and muss sheets in the night time.

“May the dread wolf never catch your scent.”

Aurelie hung her head, glaring towards the _Hahren_ with unyielding, yet unspoken, criticism. Still, she nodded, recanting the platitude back to her, as she had since she could form the words. “May the dread wolf never catch your scent.”

***

Her father had not taught his daughter how to wield a blade, though he had taught her to sharpen the one in her mind; to pierce lies and deception through the heart, to carve away dishonesty and seek out the truth against all costs. He taught her to use her mind, to think quickly on her light little toes, to always press forward, even when all else seemed wrong.

This is how she approached the _Hahren’s_ response to her question. Her father was tending to the halla when she found him. He’d set up a small pasture for them, right in the neck of a great cave, where sunlight pooled through an opening at the top and allowed them to bask freely.

“Aurelie,” he said with surprise once he saw her approach. He almost couldn’t recognize her with the _vallaslin_ ; she looked a fully grown woman, and she looked like her mother. “Shouldn’t you be studying?”

“I am,” she said with a smart grin. “I came to ask about Fen’Harel.”

He immediately stopped his work, his joints stiffening as he slowly turned his head. He frowned, eyes darting about their surroundings nervously, “What do you wish to know?”

She looked up at him, with those wide, inquisitive eyes that so reminded him of himself at her age. “I wish to know more about his life; why it is we fear him so much.”

 _“Da’mi,”_ he sighed, placing both hands on her shoulders. She was nearly his height now. “You know precisely why.”

“That is what the _Hahren_ told me,” she said with a frown, an unanswered question lingering in the foreground, ready to be answered. “But even still, couldn’t there be more to the story?”

Her father cocked a brow, curious. “What do you mean?”

Aurelie’s eyes flickered brightly with a glimmer of stubbornness as her lips drew into a troubled frown. “I don’t believe it’s as simple as the elders say. Perhaps his ‘Great Betrayal’ has been misconstrued throughout time.”

Her father grinned, placing a gentle hand on her back, guiding her to sit by a formation of rocks beside the creek, where the halla roamed. One of them approached Aurelie, rubbing its velvet snout to her hand softly, “I’m curious - what sparked this interest in the Dread Wolf?”

Aurelie swallowed, her eyes focused away from her father’s prying gaze, directed at a small herd of halla in the distance. She pursed her lips, a great deal of strife occurring behind the glassy lenses of her eyes. She sighed, “I...I only believe it is an injustice to look at history through only one perspective.”

“You believe it is only history,” her father observed with a lopsided smile. “Do you not believe in the gods, Aurelie?”

A look of shock passed through her eyes, her attention directed towards him. “Well, of course I” - she stops, her lips slightly parted as an intruding thought seems to hinder her - “I...I’m not sure exactly what I believe.”

“Well,” her father said, wrapping a gentle arm around her shoulder, “I know I believe that I am proud of you. You do well to question the elders, even if they do not believe so.”

She looked up at him with the warmth of a smile, “Thank you, father.”

He nodded, meeting her with an embrace. She rested her chin on his shoulder, still tender from the blood writing. She looked into the distance, eyes meeting the outskirts of the camp, where the sun melted into the horizon; where, out past the tents, sat a statue of the Dread Wolf, turned away from the camp - away from her people.

She closed her eyes.

***

Before the _vallaslin,_ before she was the hunter, before the woman Aurelie knew herself to be, there was a time when she was just a girl. A child, no more, no less.

Her first memory, or the first one she could at least recall, came in the form of a small party of children, venturing out into the woods; they were her friends, or so she thought at the time - a few of the fellow _lethallin_ she’d known since their mothers swapped stories between their swelling wombs. They’d strayed from their clan long enough to find a hot springs, out deep into the woods, where the light no longer touched the earth, but filtered through the trees to dance lightly atop the undulating pools of water in the springs.

It was dark, and Aurelie was only four, her legs short and stocky, not yet the lithe and nimble tools they’d grow into. A few of the other _len_ guided her and the younger children through the forest, where they plucked elfroot and wove it through their satin hair and rolled about the lush patches of greenery. The hot springs was a welcomed surprise once the sunlight faded and the air grew cooler with the promise of night, so the children stripped down to their smallclothes and ventured into the hospitable pools, lit by the rising moon.

The first hour or so was heavenly; the water was the perfect temperature, warm enough to greet the Elven children graciously in its embrace. Aurelie found herself comforted by its waters, the hot caress of its touch. And as the moments passed, she found herself growing lazier and lazier, more susceptible to drowsiness, on the brink of sleep. The other children noticed, giggling maniacally as the abandoned her, dried off and dressed, running back to the camp with untucked clothes breezing in the wind.

When Aurelie remembered herself, she was alone. The moon was at its peak, its reflection mirrored on the surface of the hot spring. She was exposed to its glow, body bare and vulnerable under the fullness of the satellite.

Noticing the absence of the others, she found herself shaking albeit the heat. The hot springs was no longer welcoming, but felt like prison of suffocating warmth. Still, she could not allow herself to move; she felt pinned down, unwelcome on the earth she knew so well.

Fearful, she began to command herself slowly to stand up, though the threat of bloodshed made itself apparent instantly. Like spirits, three hyenas came out of the woodwork, skulking about the pools of water, eyes pinned upon Aurelie hungrily. She stayed perfectly still, her mind wiped blank of any thought but those of panic and fear. The hyenas approached slowly, tactful and somehow graceful in their movements, the buoyancy of their wagging tails frighteningly hypnotizing to the young Elf.

She let out a broken breath, a small whimper tearing from her lips. She wished so badly to be in her parents’ arms, away from danger. If only she could defend herself, like her mother. She’d heard stories of her mother taking out entire herds of hyenas with a single blow of her mage staff; but she was only a child, and what defense did a young girl have against three creatures of the night?

Quite ready to lunge themselves at her, the hyenas took one last trot around the hot springs before their assault. The largest one locked its yellow eyes with hers, so bright and clear and close that she felt she could see herself in their mirrored lenses. She took in a breath, said a prayer to whomever could be listening, and shut her eyes as she heard the largest one snarl at her. She flinched, ready to be mauled by the vicious creature, when instead all she heard was the sound of a quiet whimper.

She opened her eyes, only to see the three hyenas falling backwards, nearly tripping over themselves in retreat. Still, their eyes focused on a single target behind Aurelie, shaking bodies filled with fear. Once they were far enough away, the young Elf shifted her weight around in the water in hopes of catching a glimpse of what it was that had saved her.

Shrouded in the darkness, untouched by light, a shapeless figure dwelled. She could make out nothing but its eyes, luminescent in the absence of the moon’s pale glow. Slanted and animalistic, they seemed almost wolf like, pinned directly on Aurelie, fixed perfectly in the pool. And yet though they were unmistakably feral, there was something remarkably human about them; a note of compassion, a glimmer of a greater truth she could not pinpoint. A low growl came from its throat, a deeper and huskier sound than she’d ever heard before; however frightening it was, though, she could tell it was not directed towards her, but rather in her defense.

She turned back towards where the hyenas once stalked her, relieved to see they were no longer there, but running in the opposite direction, deep into the underbrush. Aurelie grinned crookedly, turning back around to the wolf-like creature, taking it upon herself to murmur the few words in Elvish she knew.

 _“Ma melava halani,”_ she declared, the words spilling clumsily from her mouth as if the voice were not her own. _“Ma serannas.”_

The wolf’s eyes blinked, and she could see the shadowy figure of a head nod itself towards her. It said something to her, but the words were so heavy; so thick in the ancient tongue that the young Elf could not quite understand its meaning. Still, she was thankful, and so she nodded back, her smile spreading over her lightly freckled face.

Ever so gracefully, the wolf’s eyes blinked back, a striking flash of humanity evident in the way it looked at her. But both the glimmer in its eyes and the figure itself were gone all too quickly, pivoting on its heel and turning away to retreat in the opposite direction.

She would not see the figure that saved her that night so many moons ago for many, many years to come. And though she felt she could not tell anyone of what happened that night, it did not, by any means, erase itself from her memory. Whatever saved her, whoever saved her from the creatures that night, it was a memory for her alone. A pinch of sugar, tucked away in her brain; a secret. She relived it long after she’d grown older, learned the way of self-defense and to sleep with a dagger beside herself as a lover; he was a visage, a memory from a past that was not hers to own anymore.

Her wolf, her savior, her secret.

Her friend.

Fen’Harel.


	2. A Path Walked Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas consults an old friend. Cassandra's prisoner awakens.

_She’s different. Special._

_Wispy blonde hairs across her cheeks, like strands of sun. Feet worn and tired from running, always running. Brilliant blue vines trace her forehead, a memory of a forgotten past. Shards inside her are missing, pieces of a puzzle, scattered across a void._

_Where did they go?_

_Deep slumber, like the one before. Old wounds, bruised over. After spending so much time in darkness, there is so much light. So much hope. Don’t let it go; don’t let it slip through your fingers._

_It will be different this time._

I _can be different this time._

***

Solas doesn’t believe in the Elven gods, for obvious reasons; perhaps, though, only obvious to himself.

He knows many things, believes in few. He believes in cause and effect, wisdom and truth; logic and magic. It could easily seem oxymoronic to anyone who doesn’t understand the gentle ebb and flow of the two concepts; when one pushes, the other pulls. Less so opposites, more so harmony.

But there are no gods of magic to pray to. When all feels wrong, one cannot not turn to logic to create a miracle. In moments such as these, Solas wishes he was a weaker man. Normal men have the luxury of such an act; to turn to the Chantry, sing a few holy words to the Maker or Andraste or anyone who may be listening and instantly find peace. Sometimes, he wishes he could do that. He wishes he knew less.

For as much as he prides himself on his knowledge, it is a terrible burden to know.

***

He’s asleep.

In the real world, in real time, he’s gone to them. But his conscious state of mind, however; that’s in the Fade, where he’s most comfortable. The Veil is thin here, in this part of Haven, and he can feel it tingling against his skin, where the mountains scrape the sky so high that his body sometimes forgets to breathe.

His journeys into the Fade are normally long, but this one is longer. He finds himself in a thicket of trees and underbrush, unfamiliar to him, but friend to a past long forgotten. He wanders a bit aimlessly until he finds what he’s looking for, and sits down in a patch of elfroot, just underneath the warmth of the freckled sun.

_“Aneth ara.”_

His friend greets him in the underbrush, a lucid glow beating from its skin, like a faithful, steady heartbeat. It looks well, as healthy as a spirit can be, waiting for him amongst a circle of foliage. He smiles upon its presence, sitting within its wake.

“It is good to see you, _ma falon,”_ he says to the spirit, who smiles in response. It often takes different forms each meeting, but this one is familiar; a girl he knew long ago from a faraway clan, calming brown eyes and a warm smile. He was sad when she died. A laugh like crashing waves, and the hum as they shrink back to the sea. It welcomes him; makes him feel safe.

“You seem tired, old friend,” it speaks, detecting the flickering intonation of his voice, concerned. “What troubles you?”

He frowns, unnerved by the way it’s always been able to understand him; sometimes more easily than himself. “I...I’ve entered a place I believe that I am not welcome.”

It directs a pointed look at him, frowning with a mixture of curiosity and concern, “You are an Elf, of Arlathan. Most places struggle to welcome your kind.”

His lips twitch into a premature smile, “Yes,” he agrees with a nod. “Yet I am troubled by many things, of late.”

His friend looks at him, eyes warm; inviting, familiar. “I have seen you often times through the Breach,” it speaks, voice soft as the downtrodden earth. He’s alarmed by its directness; usually they do not speak of things not concerning the Fade. “You lie beside the weak Dalish girl. She hurts - there are pieces of her, gone. You are trying to find them. Trying to put them back together. Why, I wonder?”

He twitches at its forthcoming nature, hanging his head to stare at his fists, clenched atop his tights. “It is my duty, _ma falon,”_ he insists. “To help the People, I must first help her. Even _if_ she is Dalish.”

The familiar lips pull at a weak smile, lopsided and hopeful. “Oh, sweet boy,” it murmured, reaching a long finger to caress his cheek woefully, feeling like air against ticklish skin. “There is so much regret in your eyes. So much pain” - it drops his hand to its side, a hand that does not belong to them - “but there is still compassion inside you. You wish to help the girl.”

Solas purses his lips, musing over his words carefully. “They are calling her the Herald of Andraste.”

It almost laughs. The sound of rushing water, breaking on the rocks. Visions of the past; his past, when he was young. When he was another man. “You know that cannot be true,” it says lightly.

He knows it is right; that does not mean he cannot wish otherwise. Still, he nods, no matter how regretfully. “I must change what has come about,” he says softly, stoic. Yet his eyes betray him, pools of black, swimming in gray pools of sorrow. “But what if the future is just as grim?”

“This is why you’ve come,” it surmises, offering a knowing smile. It’s joints relax, leaning forward as if to lend an ear, “You often come seeking knowledge. Now, you come to seek wisdom.”

He glances up at the spirit, a small look of amusement toying in his eyes. “You have taught me the difference many times.”

A waning smile flickers back at him, like a dying candle. “Oh, _da’len_. You still wish for so much,” it mutters with a loaded sigh. “Nature is a tricky thing to uproot. It is to change the past, present, and future still to come.”

“I must will myself to do so anyway,” he insists, grimacing, as if concentrating on doing so that very moment. “What other choice do I have?”

The spirit sighs, the woman’s shoulders slumping in a near defeated stance. It looks to him; a colleague, a scholar, a friend, and it feels his pain, weighing on him like the trials of a thousand and one men, struggling to tear past the rubble and see light once more.

 _“Da’len,_ you mourn for the errors you have caused. But you walk this road without company,” it says, its voice a quiet sigh. It looks at him wistfully, as if it could imagine a time when things were not as such, “It is already such a heavy burden to carry the world on your shoulders. Perhaps you do not also need to do it alone.”

Solas grimaces, flinching at the words he’d purged from him long ago, like a toxin or disease. “I am not in the position to mix company,” he says, clinically avoiding a more powerful word; the one he wants. “I denied myself that luxury long ago.”

“You’ve erred in the past, that is certain, and you cannot change it, but you did not know what it would lead to,” it says.

He flinches at the mention. He takes a deep breath, looking up at the spirit through narrowed slits, “Will you help me?”

The spirit parts its lips, releasing the smallest of sighs. Solas’s reluctance to speak of himself is not new, however unwelcome. Still, in response, it only shakes its head, a slow, remorseful gesture, “I am sorry,” it says, softly against the cool taste of refusal in Solas’s mouth. “I cannot help in the way I once could” - Solas looks at his friend, a plea for help, but still it shakes its head - “I’m afraid the Breach has driven away many of the spirits who could have once assisted you. And even now, I feel my power draining. I am not as strong as I once was.”

Solas’s eyes turn instantly from self-pity to shock; a desire to help. He frowns, his brows furrowed in a gesture of defiance, “We must stop this. I...I will close the Breach. I’m sure that with enough magic done by enough mages -”

“Solas, please,” it says with a sad smile. “This is not a matter of debate. You know your magic will not work on the Breach.”

He grits his teeth together, frustrated. He doesn’t realize that he’s yelling. “We must save you.”

“Do not worry about me,” it says softly, its voice a calming melody against his red-hot anger. “What you must concern yourself is with the Dalish girl. Your work is invaluable - do not let it suffer on my account.”

Solas only nods, understanding. He’s learned it is usually not of value to argue with it; the spirit is not like mortals, where all it takes is a quick quip to silence their tongue. Here, in the Fade, he is the student, never the teacher. It thrills him and frightens him all at once.

“I will leave you, then,” he says softly.

The spirit continues to smile.

“When the time comes, you will do what is right. You will redeem yourself - whatever the cost may be,” it declares, its voice clear and truthful. It smiles at him; its soft, familiar eyes find his; they lock, and for a moment, Solas is again presented with another reality. When he was a different man. _“La mala suledin nadas.”_

Solas’s jaw tightens. He nods in poised assurance. It’s a platitude the old spirit has reused time and time again. “And now you must endure.”

It is nothing new.

***

“I’m just going to say it. The kid’s fucking weird.”

Varric Thethras has observed the apostate from afar for days, nearly weeks at this point, and seems to feel further and further away from him each time he makes an attempt to speak. Though _he_ ’s technically the prisoner (though at this point, the only one who seems to qualify him as this is Cassandra) he feels freer than Solas, constantly locking himself either away in the keep with the sleeping prisoner or alone, musing over Maker knows what.

“He’s certainly... well accustomed to solitude,” Commander Cullen muses, over one of their many recent games of chess. They watch as Solas walks amongst the courtyard, fretfully occupying himself with a million things each minute. He somehow seems to be everywhere all the time, yet nowhere all at once. Perhaps, Varric’s surmised, that’s what happens when you spend half your life in the Fade. You trickle in and out of life and the real world like running water.

The rest of the Inquisition knew him only by reputation: the apostate who could claim to save the girl and formulate an answer concerning the Breach. When the strange Elven girl spilled out from the Fade, that strange mark etched onto her hand, the lone survivor of the destruction of the entire conclave, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast immediately called “execution.” But when reminded that: a) the Elf would need a fair trial, b) Seeker Pentaghast could not quite, as she was so fond of believing, chop off anyone’s head at the drop of a hat, and c) that she was not exactly _awake_ to defend herself, the Seeker was greeted by the cold reality of imprisonment.

It wasn’t long after the incident that Solas appeared at the Inquisition’s camp, forfeited his staff, and offered his services. Varric had been with Cassandra when she heard the news and can remember the fire in her eyes, remnants of a prejudice that never truly passes. So she’d accepted him, but watched him carefully as a hawk, lurking around every corner and hallway, waiting for him to slip up. Nobody knew where he was from, how he’d gotten here, or exactly what he intended to do. He insisted his research was his sole motivator, and that knowledge and salvation was what he craved.

But Varric called bullshit.

He didn’t know for what other purpose - but still, he called bullshit.

Whatever they heard concerning him seemed to be strictly gossip, however; Solas seemed to talk to no one but occasionally Cullen, Varric, or Cassandra - though, the Seeker only seemed interested in speaking when she was making threats or throwing the words “duplicitous” and “execution” around like throwing knives, used for sport in a tavern.

Varric, for one, had an ever growing affection for the mage, however strange or distant he may have been. He’d started calling him Chuckles, to his face and to others, after the series of rather dark jokes he’d made to himself concerning Cullen’s propensity for hair care, in addition to the Seeker’s unnerving collection of explicit texts she’d been caught reading multiple times behind the barracks.

“Do you think he’s actually getting anywhere, though?” Varric speculates, making an impulsive move across the board to swipe Cullen’s pawn. “Cassandra’s saying that he’s always coming ass-up. That he talks big but hasn’t produced anything yet.”

Cullen watches his pieces meticulously as he would in battle, carefully planning his next strategic assault on Varric’s bishop. “I believe in him. Or at the least, I believe that _he_ believes in him. He claims he’s never seen any magic like it - it must be difficult to comprehend.”

“Must be difficult, for a smart ass like him,” Varric remarks gruffly. “But I almost pity the kid. Cassandra’s got the whole weight of the fucking world on his shoulders. She makes it out like he’ll be the reason we’re all dead if he comes up with nothing.”

“I wouldn’t be _too_ worried for him,” Cullen smirks. “The threat of Cassandra’s fury has propelled lesser men to greater achievements.”

Varric chuckles, the grin on his face twisting slyly as he turns to the board. “No, but I’d be worry for _you,”_ he remarks, pointing downs his few pieces remaining on the board. “Looks like you’re going to lose, blondie.”

Cullen folds his finger together into a web beneath his chin, gazing intently at the board. A smug smile forms on his lips as he moves one of his last remaining pieces, swiping Varric’s king out from underneath him, laying it on its side. “I wouldn’t worry too much over my condition, Varric,” he remarks matter-of-factly.

Varric, however taken aback, still manages a lopsided grin. “You little _bastard_. How did you do that?"

Cullen grins, sitting back in his chair, his arms relaxed over his torso in victory. "Perhaps if you spent more time at the war table planning battles rather than going out impulsively looking for them, you'd learn something about strategy."

Varric frowns, looking distastefully upon the notion. "Sounds boring. Besides, Bianca would get lonely."

"Oh, right, of course," Cullen remarks sardonically. "How foolish of me?"

Varric smirks at Cullen’s good humor; out of the corner of his eye, he can see Solas skirting along the walkway, headed back towards the dungeons to resume his research. Varric flags him down, causing a bit of a commotion in the process.

“Hey, Chuckles!” He exclaims. When Solas stops in his tracks to look back at Varric, he nods in approval, “Yes, you, _Solas!_ Over here!”

Solas glides towards them, effortlessly maneuvering the sparring soldiers and passersby. He looks frantic, as always, busy running about between his station and the jail cells, where he would research that asinine green mark on her hand that glowed like a fucking torchlight. He can’t possibly begin to understand what he finds so fascinating about it all. All it is another fact to be put in another dusty old history book. It’d make a great novel, though.

“You require something of me?” He asks as soon as he approaches, glancing towards the two men without introduction.

Varric gestures to the board, “Why don’t you take over for me? You’ve been cooped up in those damn prison cells for days. Take a break. Relax a little. It’s only the entire safety of the world we’re worrying about here.”

Solas’s expression betrays him, the hint of a grin playing at the right corner of his mouth. Yet, he shakes his head, directing his attention towards Cullen. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be fair to the Commander.”

He widens his eyes, settling back in his seat speculatively. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Well, because I’m frighteningly good.”

Cullen looks almost taken aback. He grins faintly, “Cocky now?”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

Varric slaps his knee, laughter collapsing from his chest. “You’re a riot, Chuckles.”

He nods towards him with the flicker of a smile. “I do not know what I did,” he remarks, shrugging, “though I appreciate the sentiment.”

Cullen’s grin spreads. He opens his mouth to speak, but immediately feels a looming presence over him. He turns, only to see beside him, several of his men have lined up. His lieutenant steps forward to mutter something of secrecy into his ear, causing the Commander’s eyes to widen, his body to jolt upright.

Varric and Solas look at him in surprise as he stands up, furthering himself from the chessboard. Varric frowns at him, disappointed, “What’s wrong, Curly? Took Chuckle’s threats so seriously that you’re running?”

Cullen’s grin has since turned to ash, a somber expression written across his face in longhand. He glances at the two, his gaze lingering particularly long on the apostate, “There’s fighting in the valley. My assistance is needed,” he turns himself towards Solas. “And there is something you should know, So-”

Before the Commander can finish his thought, however, a messenger has already darted past the troops, panting wildly, placing a shaking hand to his chest. “V-Varric…Tethras. A-and...Solas…” he straightens his back, handing a piece of parchment to the dwarf, who takes it eagerly, unfolding it without a care. “A...A letter from Seeker Pentaghast.”

Varric nods in respect towards the messenger, who replies with a gesture before returning in the other direction. Varric’s quick eyes dart about the paper, and within a moment, he’s looking up at Solas with an incredulous expression.

“What is it?” The mage asks impatiently, a tone of indignance in his voice. His eyes flicker towards the paper, almost tempted to reach out and take it, “What does the Seeker have to say?”

Varric’s look of shock immediately fades to a smug grin. He dangles the parchment in front of Solas, taunting him as if he were prey. “Looks like your little science project worked after all,” he says cheerily. Solas looks at him in confusion before Varric hands him the note, “The prisoner’s awake. And Cassandra’s going to take her to the Breach.”

Solas’s hands are trembling, holding the paper. He reads over it five, six times before it sinks in. He looks up at Varric, and Cullen, who’s already begun preparing the troops. His feet, skin blisteringly cool against the fresh fallen snow, are unable to move. His mouth opens only slightly, his tongue failing him, unable for the first time since Varric’s known him to properly express himself.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Varric says anxiously, picking up Bianca, who’s been resting beside him the entire game. He slings the crossbow across his shoulder, grinning wickedly, “Let’s go find your weird Fade-girlfriend.”

***

Despite how many times Solas argued against both going first to the rift or Varric’s decision to call the prisoner his “Fade-girlfriend,” they did not immediately go to see her in the cells. Rather, once they got there, she was gone; her shackles were open, guards’ posts abandoned. It was only after a soldier insisted that they rejoin the fight were they pushed forward with Commander Cullen’s troops to push back the demons and reach the Forward Camp.

“This is absurd,” Solas says, shortly after the second wave of demons emerging from the glowing tear in the sky. He wipes the sweat from his brow with his wrist, glancing at Varric, “What’s keeping Cassandra?”

Varric raises a suspicious brow, and without hardly having to think, pulls the trigger of his crossbow, sending an arrow straight through the skull of an emerging demon. He looks up at Solas with a grin, “Be patient, loverboy.”

Solas grimaces, readying himself for the next round of demons. “You’re absurd.”

“I’m observant. It’s different.”

Solas mutters something in Elvish that Varric can’t quite understand, leaving him in a burst of sidesplitting laughter. As expected, the demons come, in heavier numbers than the first time. Their numbers of soldiers depleting by the moment, Solas feels the weight of the demons more and more with each passing second. He cannot help but wonder where Cassandra is and why she’s taken so long.

Amidst the bloodshed, he tries to imagine it: Cassandra, marching forward, tall and proud, sword brandished with the prisoner beside her, probably cowering and still shackled. It must be a sight to see. In an idle thought, he wonders just how it looks: to see the prisoner, up and about, eyes open and expressive. He wonders just what color eyes she has, what her voice sounds like; how it’d sound saying his name, thanking him.

His daydream is cut short, however, once he hears Varric shout out his name. He’s called back to reality brutally, looking up to realize a Shade is but a few inches away from his face; he nearly topples backwards, still staggering to catch his footing when he watches a dagger tear through the demon with exacting certainty; a fatal blow, dealt in one swift movement. But it is surely not the same as Varric’s arrow, nor is it Cassandra’s massive longsword. It’s small, agile, like a lithe tree branch sharpened at the tip.

Just regaining control of himself, he looks at the person wielding it. Crisp, magnificent blue eyes. Wisps of white blonde hair, falling out of a tousled braid. A familiar face, animated for the first time. She glances at him for but a moment, when all seems so still, her pale face speckled with crimson blood.

She cracks a smile, then returns to her work.

Solas tries to shake off his shock, concerning himself with the matter at hand. Swiftly, Cassandra and the prisoner take charge, killing more demons in but a few mere moments than either him or Varric had been able to manage before. She handles her blades like they’re a paintbrush, not separate, but connected; a single entity, joined by her skillful hands. He’s never seen a rogue deal with death with such grace. It’s less so a weapon, but more so an extension of her arm, of her own self.

Varric deals the final blow to the last demon standing, sending it to the earth in a deafening cry of defeat. Solas realizes immediately that there’s not much time; that he has to act now, in this moment, before more demons spill through the rift.

“Quickly,” he shouts, his voice sounding so distant, so not his own amongst the blood and sweat of the fight. “Before more come through!”

Without even thinking, he grabs the prisoner’s hand - calloused and warm, slick with blood, the mark on her hand nothing new to him - and presses it towards the rift in the sky. He feels something contract in his chest, a hope, even a prayer, that this will work - it has to work, or else all of his research will have been for naught.

Almost immediately, the rift’s glow brightens, the outline of it stretching, pulsating like a quivering heartbeat, about to take its last repetition. At once, it seems to burst, and both she and Solas are knocked back, the rift fading from existence. He feels his breath hitch, his heartbeat still racing, looking at the prisoner and masking the feeling of incredulousness with ease. His whole body feels alive, amazed by the power and strength displayed in all but a single moment of ease; a single gesture.

And all at once, he feels the whole world change.

She distances himself from him, holding her hand before her like a foreign weapon. She grimaces, looking at him in a mixture of confusion and horror, “What did you do?” She demands. Her voice is sharp, exacting. But it’s soft. Careful. Wary. He’d assumed Ferelden, and he was right. Free Marches, most likely.

“I did nothing,” he says. He gestures to her, smiling, “The credit is yours.”

She looks at the mark on her hand, hardly able to keep her eyes from the glowing anchor. “You mean this?”

“Whatever magic opened that Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand,” he says. She gazes at the mark, examining her hand distantly, cautiously, like something she might purchase, “I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened the Breach’s wake - and it seems I was correct.”

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” Cassandra observes, stepping forward.

Solas nods to her with caution, “Possibly,” he says. Coyly, he holds his hands together, turning towards the prisoner, smiling softly, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

Nervously, she looks at him, her eyes made brighter by the harsh sunlight through the snow laden branches. Varric speaks up to introduce himself, saying something about Cassandra, something about the armies of demons yet to come - Solas isn’t listening. He’s alarmingly thrown off by how light-headed he is, how defenseless he feels; how vulnerable.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions,” he says, smiling. “I am pleased to see you still live.”

Varric interjects, smirking, “He means ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’”

She glances at him - there’s a spark of curiosity hidden beneath the surface of her eyes, dancing behind her irses. “You seem to know a great deal about it all,” she says.

“Solas is an apostate, well-versed in such matters,” Cassandra remarks.

He looks at her pointedly, smiling almost smugly. “Technically all mages are now apostates, Cassandra,” he tells her. He glances back at the prisoner, who’s already focused on him, eyes open and keen with interest. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle Mage. I came to offer whatever help I could give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

She smiles slightly, quirking a brow, “And what will you do once this is over?”

The smugness of his grin fades, his features softening, “One hopes those in power will remember who helped. And who did not.”

She can only grin.

***

What proceeds is a series of lengthy battles, unnecessary conflict, and unnecessary Chantry politics. Solas couldn’t care less to debate such foolishness - he is pleased to see, however, that the prisoner is unwilling as well.

They take the mountain path. Cassandra is pleased, charging with the soldiers as if they were her own. Cullen is there, helping the wounded, leaving them to attend to the Breach. Leliana accompanies them, her arrow slung over her back like a separate appendage.

Once they reach the Breach, Solas is overwhelmed. Up close, it is a terrifying kind of brilliance. Once they’ve killed the pride demon, the prisoner tries to replicate the motion he’d shown her. He’d shown her. Perhaps he could do some good, after all.

He watches, as the beam of green light connects with her palm. It illuminates his face, and all of those present watch with terror and awe in their eyes. He’s watching the Breach, but his eyes are drawn to her - her, looking into the unknown with shocking determination. She, who is a prisoner in their eyes, who still resolves to work beside them to close the gaping tear in the sky. It is admirable. She is admirable.

And then, there is a boom.

***

Her name is Lavellan. Aurelie Lavellan.

After the battle, after the failed attempt to close the Breach, she falls to her knees. Her hand raised to the sky, the mark on her hand, pulsating like a severed heart, Solas hears her scream crack through the sky as she falls to the earth. The rest is a blur after that; for all of them, really.

He rushes to her side, per Cassandra’s request and his own. He leans to her side; that’s when she tells him her name, the words leaving her mouth in breathy gasps.

“Aurelie Lavellan,” she coughs. It is a plea. She is writing her own will, right before his eyes, with what little breath she can muster. Her eyes are dancing, like fireworks before they go off. “That’s my name. Lavellan. P-please, Solas...contact my clan...tell them I’m sorry. Tell them I’m…”

She’s looking for something to grasp, something to hold onto, but everything is blurry. Solas takes her by the shoulders, gently shaking her, telling her to stay awake, calling her by her name, _“Aurelie, Aurelie, don’t die on us now, don’t you dare die.”_

If her lips were not parted, taking in quick, uneven breaths, he would’ve assumed she was lost to the world, all hope forgotten. He is no apothecary, but he keeps her stable with a spell on the way back, Cassandra, Varric, and an army of soldiers at his side. It feels like a funeral procession. He carries her - he has to. She is his burden; if she dies, if she is to be unable to close the Breach, the fault lies with him as well. If she dies, he can never correct his mistake. He can never right his wrong.

_My burden, my fault, my burden, my fault._

She goes in and out of consciousness on their return to the stronghold in Haven. Her whispers are quick and breathless, and he wonders who exactly she thinks she’s speaking to. She says things like “I’m sorry” and “I should have helped you.” It’s the ramblings of an unconscious woman, but he is still troubled. It’s not until that trouble turns to worry that she begins to speak more quickly and quietly, her chest rising and falling at an alarming rate. Solas watches her like one would view a ticking bomb, wondering at what point he should duck and cover himself from the debris.

And then she says it. It’s quick, and it’s faint, but he hears the words leave her lips all the same: _“Fen’Harel.”_

He nearly stops in his tracks. His bare feet, numbed by the snow, feel bolted to the floor, unable to move on with the rest of the party. They can just see the buildings in the distance, the smoke from the campfires. She’s stopped speaking, instead just begun to breathe and pant quickly, a bead of sweat tracing her brow.

She doesn’t make another sound the whole trip back. It’s only his breathing, synced with hers. He’s about to make his way for the cells once their feet touch familiar soil, but Cassandra insists she be given more appropriate quarters, given her sacrifice. Solas agrees, and heads for a small cabin, one that has been empty for their duration here.

Cassandra and Varric accompany him inside. He sets her on the bed, gently laying her head against the pillow.

“I will fetch Adan,” Cassandra says. “The prisoner should be receiving proper care.”

“She’s hardly a prisoner anymore, Seeker,” Varric retorts. “She saved all of our asses - including yours.”

Cassandra’s mouth hardens into a firm line, knowing he is right. Stiffly, she nods her head, “Still, we do not know her name.”

“It’s Lavellan,” he whispers into himself. He’s watching her - she’s breathing at an even rate now. He glances over his shoulder at them both, “She told me her name was Aurelie Lavellan.”

Cassandra stares back at him incredulously, her mouth parting to form the words of a question that never comes. Varric, instead, interjects, putting an unwelcomed hand on the Seeker’s arm as he ushers her out of the room, “Then we should all allow Aurelie some rest, shouldn’t we?”

She pulls her arm away but nods, all the same. Solas follows the two out, eyes pasted to Lavellan, sleeping peacefully on the bed. Later, Adan would come barrelling in, muttering expletives under his breath, he would do his job, and she would rise again. She would be okay.

But he wouldn’t. He stands in the door, the sound of her voice repeating the name over and over again, echoing off the sides of his head: Fen’Harel. It’d shaken him to his very core.

He follows Varric and Cassandra out of the door. Varric gestures towards the stronghold, “You coming, Chuckles? We can finish up that game of chess we never started? I’m sure you’d give Curly a run for his money.”

Solas frowns, shaking his head. He curls his toes, the name still whispered in his ears, a memory on the lips of the wind. It shakes him, binds him to a past he does not wish for, to a path he must walk alone. He shakes his head again. “No, Varric. Another time.”

The dwarf’s jaw tightens, shrugging his shoulders, “Suit yourself,” he says. “When I finally beat Curly, though, you’ll wish you were there to see it.”

“You can tell me all about it later,” Solas reminds him.

Varric grins faintly, nodding in agreement. He turns on his heel, making his way back towards the stronghold as Solas starts for the other direction. The snow is cold against his feet, and he can feel the softness of the pebbles of the path, smooth against skin.

_A path you must walk alone._

He would not wish such a thing on anyone but himself.


	3. What They Forgot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time, in the midst of so much knowledge, Solas feels he may be lonely.

Haven is alive.

For the first time in what felt like eons, it is alive.

As Lavellan rests, those who worked behind the scenes are abuzz. In Solas’s chambers, he can overhear the mirth seeping through the floorboards, all the way from across the path. The stronghold is alive with light, the torches burning bright through every window, music echoing off the cinder block walls from the makeshift tavern across from the Chantry. It seems blasphemous, though he doesn’t believe any of them, not even the holy Cassandra, could diminish their victory today.

Still, he doesn’t quite understand the celebration - it was true the Breach was delayed from getting any larger, but it was in no way fixed. Their celebration would be short lived, the moment the striking weight of the world crashed down before them.

Solas rises from his seat, retrieving his staff from against the wall. He walks out the door, breathing in the crisp air, the snow bitingly cold against his bare feet. Lavellan had only been asleep for a few hours, yet Adan worked quickly and meticulously, working at her bedside and healing her battle wounds. He’d insisted Solas return to his studies; he’d already done so much, he said. Plus, his company was rather daunting. Like a shadow stuck to the wall. Solas couldn’t blame him.

He digs his staff into the ground, gazing across the way. Some of Cullen’s soldiers have poured out of the building, toppling over each other, half empty bottles of ale clinking together as they sing songs of victory. Their hot, drunken breaths are clouds of hazy ecstasy in the moonlight.

They stumble off to their quarters as Solas watches, his fingers digging into the artifice. Through some of the windows, he can see Varric and Cullen, tossing down pitchers of ale, laughing. Leliana and Josephine are having a hand at Wicked Grace, and Cassandra is trying to read, but is constantly coaxed out of the shadows by a pitcher of ale in Varric’s hand with her name on it.

Solas grounds himself.

_It is already such a heavy burden to carry the world on your shoulders. Perhaps you do not also need to do it alone._

He clenches his jaw and turns away, back to his studies. He locks the door behind him, muffling the noise of the instruments and laughter pooling from the center of Haven. The lights do not flicker off long until the night has turned to blackness.

***

When Aurelie awakens, she’s sent straight for Cassandra.

She’s not quite sure how to react to the crowd of adoring attendees saluting her on her way to the stronghold. Whispers greet her ears like passersby, murmurs of “the Herald of Andraste” meeting her in secrecy. She pays no mind to any of them; her head is still reeling, her body still beaten and bruised from the battle. The mark still hums against her palm, a memory of an wrong she could not right.

She’d failed her Keeper. She’d failed her clan. She’d failed her family.

And she’d failed herself.

A single task: that was all. They’d entrusted in her a sacred duty, to report and deliver the information discussed at the conclave. Now, she is in foreign soil, a hundred human eyes staring down her back, Justinia dead; debatably worst of all, she’d been fool enough to believe she was capable. She’d been drunk off of the platitudes of precociousness spoken to her by every elder of her clan and lost her way; what was worse was she could not remember how. She could not remember anything at all.

The only memories of the past day came in the form of the gentle apostate kneeling beside her, the glowing rift illuminating his pallid expression. Her whispering her name to him through chapped and bloodied lips. A promise exchanged by glances. Perhaps she’s foolish to believe there could be a connection buried beneath the haze of battle, but she’d felt it, weigh on her as heavily as the intensity of the mark.

She approaches the war room with a degree of hesitancy. She can hear the Chancellor’s screams from outside the door, undoubtedly berating her behind her very back. Her hand hovers nervously over the knob when she hears a familiar voice.

“They’ve been going at it for hours."

Cullen is standing behind her, arms crossed in a near defensive stance. He’s still in his armor from the previous battle, furs and all. She wouldn’t be surprised if the blood was still fresh in the pelts. Aurelie feels prompted to inquire if it ever gets a little hot.

She turns around, “Should I come back another time?”

“No, no, no,” he insists, shaking his head. “I’m sure Cassandra will be welcoming. The Herald of Andraste is a welcomed sight. It’s quite the title, isn’t it?”

She quirks a sly smile, “I am not the Herald of Andraste.”

“Don’t tell them that,” he says, a small smile forming at his lips. He shakes his head, “Forgive me. I am Commander Cullen - I believe we met briefly, in the valley.”

“We did,” she says with a quick nod. “I’m -”

“Aurelie Lavellan. We’ve been informed.”

The memories flicker through her mind like veilfire, quickly extinguished. “Solas?” She assumes, remembering only vaguely the moment her name slipped from her lips before she blacked out. She could only remember the scene briefly, like clips from a life that did not belong to her - bright, green lights, a warm face, shrouded in a world of otherwise unprecedented darkness. “The apostate?”

He nods, “Despite what I’ve assumed, he was right about you. And the mark.”

She purses her lips. “Varric said that he kept it from killing me?”

“Tirelessly,” Cullen affirms. “Sometimes he’d stay in your cell all night. Wouldn’t come out, even for dinner.”

Her features tighten around his words. “I should thank him again-”

“Plenty of time for that later,” he says with a growing smile. He gestures to the door, “I believe you have a date with the Chanty cleric.”

“What?” She toys, “You’re not coming with me?”

Pink stains his cheeks. “I...would rather not.”

She hasn’t got any time at all to retort, however, as the door slams open, the Chancellor in their wake. He gestures to her, glowering, “Chain her!” He demands, jutting a damning finger in her direction. “I want her bound and taken to Val Royeaux for execution!”

But clearly, no one responds to his request, treating him simply as a prattling child. Aurelie glances quickly towards Cullen, who’s already a mile away, the light of the snow outside reflecting off his golden hair. He glances at her from over his shoulder. Through the strands of fur, he’s smiling.

***

Long after the meeting, long after the declarations of affection and heraldry Aurelie’s received from several of Haven’s denizens; long after her world changes in the cramped war room, the Inquisition reborn, letters sent out from Redcliffe to the Storm Coast, spreading the declaration of their presence. To Aurelie, it is a declaration of her godliness - something she’d never been confronted with until only a day ago.

Less than a week prior, she was surrounded by her own people; she was lying under the familiar stars, in her own bedroll beside her mother. She was sitting in front of campfires, listening to old tales spun cleverly by the Hahren to the children, still green and gold in the summer air. It all still feels so real, somehow, too; she can nearly see her mother’s white blonde hair now, twinkling in its bluish hue underneath the lamplight. She can nearly reach out and touch it - but instead, her fingers are met only by the cool moisture of a pitcher of ale.

“Drink up, Herald,” Varric encourages, nudging her with an eager gesture. On her way to her quarters, the dwarf had insisted she’d stop running around and take a second to relax with him and the soldiers, lined around a burning campfire, pitchers of ale falling from their sweaty, drunken hands. “Stick around here long enough, you’ll need to. Trust me.”

Aurelie winces at the smell of the stuff. Her nose crinkles, her lips pulling backwards into a snarl as she attempts to hand it to him instead; still, he only shoos it away, pushing it back towards her insistently, a smile never leaving his face. She glowers at him in frustration, “Shouldn’t you be chained somewhere, or something?” She murmurs, indignant. “Aren’t you a prisoner?”

Varric smirks, “Look who’s talking.”

She quirks a brow, rolling her eyes. “I’m the Herald now. Funny how that can change overnight.”

“Listen,” Varric says, nudging her. Her ears twitch, focusing on him, his eyes made brighter by the campfire before them. The flames crack and sizzle out, smoke reaching out to lick the stars. The familiar bluish glow of veilfire is lost here, in Haven, among the humans; the warmth of the fire, however, is enough to fill the most hollow part of her. “You and me, we’re not like these people.”

She narrows her eyes skeptically, grinning. “Oh?” She plays along.

He nods, “You and me, Lavellan - we’re rouges. Outlaws. We do what’s right, not what’s legal. And damn the consequences.”

She sighs, nodding at him as she sniffs the pitcher, as if it’d improved since last. It hadn’t. She shakes her head, “So, you heard I was a spy?” She surmises, eyes flickering to catch his in the light. His lips tug upwards slyly.

“I know my fair share about spies. I know what their real purpose is,” Varric declares.

Aurelie sighs, flashes of Keeper Istimaethoriel playing through her mind like a hazy dream. “I need you, da’mi. Clan Lavellan needs you.” She almost tosses back the ale, right then and there.

“Really?” She wonders, staring into the flicker of the flames. She shakes her head, “I’d like to know, then. Because I’m not even sure what it was I was doing there.”

Varric frowns thoughtfully, eyes pinned on the contemplative Herald. “It’s to find truth,” he insists, his conviction rising something in the hollow pit Aurelie’s stomach the mark seems to have left for her. “To hunt it down, find it, make it your bitch. That’s what you were doing at the conclave, even if you don’t realize it. You were trying to bring the truth back to your people” -he looks into the fire, his eyes set aflame - “what’s wrong with that?”

Aurelie says nothing. The flames kiss her cheeks. The vallaslin, a healed over scar, tingle at the brush with fire.

“Besides,” Varric sighs, sinking into his seat, raising his own pitcher to his lips, “look at where you are now - breaking the rules seems to have landed you in a pretty comfortable position.”

She stifles a laugh. “Trade places with me?” She suggests hopefully, smiling at him.

He shakes his head in mock disappointment, “Oh, come on now. Where’s that fighting spirit?” He inquires, taking a heavy swig of his drink. He wipes his mouth with a sleeve, “I saw you in the valley. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. What do the Dalish give their hunters?”

“You sound like my Keeper,” she says with a loaded sigh. She quickly glances at the pitcher again, the amber liquid taunting her cruelly. In the light of the flames, it almost looks appetizing. Coupled by that and the weight of the occasion on her shoulders, the image of her clan, of her people, staring back at her with disappointed, lifeless eyes, it’s enough to draw her lips to the cup. And nearly cough herself to death.

Varric offers a congratulatory pat on the back, “‘Atta girl,” he booms, his laugh echoing through the sky. “Welcome to Haven, Herald. Happy to have you.”

Aurelie grimaces, about to take another sip of the putrid liquid until a shadowy figure, stalking quietly from the distance thieves her sight. Through the flames, she can see his face, their eyes meeting in a clash of cobalt on steel.

“You spare no time in poisoning our latest recruit,” Solas quips, eyes darting between the two. He stands tall and prideful, regal, almost, his staff held close to his side. He looks like someone in a story Aurelie may have heard told to her; an old Dalish lullaby.

“Just because you can’t handle it doesn’t mean she can’t,” Varric smirks. He glances at her, “Isn’t that right?"

She only coughs in response, raising a hand to cup her mouth, the liquid feeling like rising magma in her throat.

“The Dalish are not so well accustomed to ale, Varric,” he explains, digging his staff into the snow, shifting his weight gently.

She glances at him smartly, swallowing the burning feeling down her throat. “If I can survive this” - she holds up her hand, gesturing to the pulsating green gash etched across her palm - “I think I can take a little drinking.”

Stubbornly, she tilts her head back, taking a long and ill-considered drink. She holds it in her mouth for a moment until it slips down her throat, and in an instant, she’s holding her head between her knees, coughing and hiccuping into the earth.

Varric nearly falls over in laughter as Solas watches, smirking, from afar. “Perhaps you should stick to sealing rifts, Lavellan.”

She glances up, stray hairs falling in her face in front of her eyes, narrowed into pained slits. “Perhaps…” she suddenly feels a quick jab of pain in her stomach, one she reaches for with a groan, “...perhaps that was not the best idea.”

Varric glances towards Solas, “Chuckles, why don’t you give it a whirl? Maybe there’s a spell that can help our lightweight Herald?”

Solas gestures for her with a quick wave of his staff, “There is no spell, but I know an herbal remedy,” he beckons. His eyes flash with something for a moment, until it’s gone. “Come.”

Aurelie nods, rising from her seat and following the apostate, leaving Varric chuckling to himself in his wake. Solas walks a few strides ahead of her, his gait graceful and stoic atop the frigid kiss of the snowy slates. The only sound for a while is of his even breaths, in sync with the hot clouds of air escaping his mouth upon each exhale. It’s soothing to watch, a cure in its own regard.

“I believe a thanks is in order,” Aurelie says finally.

Solas turns to look at her, an expression of confusion pressed into his gaze that she assumes he does not encounter often. “You needn’t thank me. The remedy is composed mostly of elfroot, a common herb and in no means irreplaceable -”

“Not for the remedy,” she corrects him quickly.

He cocks a brow. She advances her stride, walking at his side now. “Then for what? For taking you away from Varric?” He jests, laughing softly, the sound of it refreshing. “If so, that’s less so a gift and more so the moral thing to do.”

Aurelie laughs, the sound of it echoing off the wooden walls and into the night sky. The Breach above them hums in response, the greenish hue almost beautiful from so far away, when nothing about it seems so dangerous. “I was going to say for all your help before - but interpret it as you will.”

His smile falters for a moment, realizing. He glances ahead, “Ah, yes,” he muses. “Please, pay no mind to it. I was only doing my duty.”

“Cassandra told me you helped get me back to Haven safely, after I fell,” she recounts. “That’s twice now I owe you my life.”

“You owe me nothing,” Solas insists, stubborn in his reply. “If you die, the world dies along with you. It would be illogical to have done anything but do everything in my power to assure you lived.”

She blinks, taken slightly aback. “I’m pleased that saving my life proved logical,” she laughs darkly, an underlying tone of bitter sarcasm evident in her voice.

He glances at her, eyes widening. “Apologies,” he says instantly. “I...did not mean to imply something so…”

“Clinical? Distant? Unfeeling?” She jests, smirking. “Stop me if you hear it."

“All three were appropriate,” he chuckles, a tad bashful. “I simply meant that it would have been foolish to not do what I did. Anyone would have done the same.”

At once, Solas stops, upon approaching his quarters. He opens the door, and with a wave of his hand, illuminates the room in a small burst of fire. It’s as cleanly as Aurelie would have expected, papers and tomes filed neatly on his desk, along with a small station and pile of herbs. She allows herself to sit at the foot of the bed while he works, holding her stomach as it aches.

He glances at her, “You should remember you are not among Elvhen here,” Solas mentions, grinding a bushel of elfroot into a fine paste as he speaks. “The constitution of modern elves does not quite allow for the consumption of so much alcohol.”

She narrows her eyes, “Modern elves?” She inquires.

Solas’s eyebrow rises at the question, pleased by her intrigue. Living amongst so many disinterested parties, his words had always felt like they were falling on deaf ears. In his short experience with Aurelie, however, she’d taken his word at a heavy value; and he’d appreciated her doing so.

“Well, yes,” he says with a curt nod. “So many years of subjugation and slavery has weakened the bodies of the Elvhen, and thus their constitutions. You should be more careful, lethallan - if you’d like, I can prepare to have more traditional Dalish meals sent to your quarters. I’m sure the kitchens can be accomodating.”

She stares at him, awestruck, her jaw at the floor. She’s silent for a moment, finding nothing to say to properly reflect her sentiments. “I...I would appreciate that.”

He only nods.

“You seem to know a lot about the People,” she says, thinking aloud.

Solas stiffens, digging the mallet deeper into the bowl, crushing the herbs in a moment of catharsis. Quick, faint memories of her in his arms pass through his head. Fen’Harel.

“My journeys into the Fade have provided me with a wealth of knowledge,” he declares. “The Dalish have forgotten much of who the Elvhen once were - willingly and not.”

She frowns thoughtfully. She thinks of herself, at the age of only seven, sitting amongst a circle of Dalish children, listening to the Hahren recount old legends - tales so magnificent they had to be fabricated. She thinks of her studies of the Elven pantheon, her inquires often brushed aside by those who would rather not be bothered. A book in her lap, her father teaching her how to pronounce the words that seemed insurmountable.

“And your journeys into the Fade,” she murmurs, pressing her lips together in thought. She glances at him, almost hopefully, “You’re able to seek out the truth? The whole truth?”

Solas almost stops what he’s doing entirely, his whole body electric with the sheer excitement of the question. “Yes,” he says, his eyes glowing, independent from the glow of the fire. “In the Fade, I’ve unearthed countless artifacts - I’ve watched ancient battles from afar, the kinds you only hear about in songs. I’ve slept in ancient ruins, learned things about our culture that the Dalish discarded long before they fell to slavery.”

Their eyes lock, both wide and eager with mutual excitement, laden with different reasons. She grins, “You have an interesting way of viewing the world, Solas.”

He glances at her, smiling. In an instant, he’s already poured out the concoction and placed it in a small tin, offering it to her. She takes it from him graciously, their fingers brushing.

 _“Ma serannas,”_ she tells him softly, her tongue tripping over the strange language.

Whatever surprise she can detect in his eyes is gone in an instant. He smiles so softly she hardly sees it there, “You are welcome,” he says. The flicker of an idea darts across his mind, imagining quite possibly unimaginable, selfish things. Journeys through the Fade, this inquisitive, thoughtful woman at his side - unearthing her heritage, their heritage. Understanding what the Dalish forgot, through dusty texts and crumbling ruins; and for a moment, he almost breaks. He almost betrays himself. His eyes glimmer as he shuts them, pressing a hand to his tired forehead as he steps back into the shadows.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from the festivities,” he says.

“I certainly don’t mind,” Aurelie tells him. “And they’re hardly festivities. If you could count my stupid stubbornness to drink ale and Varric’s stupid stubbornness to make me festivities, well then-”

“I’m afraid I have a lot of work,” Solas insists, more strictly this time. It’s not a suggestion to leave, it’s a requirement, buried underneath a facade of polite conversation. Her eyes soften, almost sadly. “And I wouldn’t want to distract you from your own duties.”

She nods, holding the remedy a bit closer. She stands up, brushing off her small frame, “If you insist,” she says with a sigh, making her way for the door. His body aches to reel her back in, discuss her and the Fade and what escaped her lips the day prior. He ached to say all the things he’d kept inside for so many torturous years, but they’d been locked away like so many other things. Her eyes flicker to him before she departs, “It was good speaking to you, Solas.”

“You as well, Lavellan,” he says, her name slipping off his tongue like a curse. An indulgence.

She nods at him, their eyes meeting briefly - flashes of each other’s history, like a deck of cards - blood, disgrace, sacrifice, pain, so much pain - until she departs, leaving the ghost of her presence in his room like lingering spirit. And so Solas sits, bolted to his chair, a two hundred year old tome unfolded at his fingertips, gazing upon years and years of treasured knowledge. There’s a wealth of learning to be done before him, surrounded by facts and reason and beautiful, beautiful logic, and yet Solas can’t help the creeping pit of isolation in his stomach that Lavellan has left him with.

Again, he is left alone, without the company of any other physical being. It is not the first time - yet, Solas believes it may be the first time he’s felt lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't think i've done this yet, but thank you guys for the kudos! i'd really love to hear your opinions too. hope you're enjoying this! next chapter i believe is going to be more about lavellan's past with the clan (which i believe is VERY lacking in the game and would've loved to hear more about)


	4. In the Light of the Veilfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the light of the veilfire, Keeper Istimaethoriel asks of Aurelie a heavy request.

“Aurelie. You may see her now.”

It’s sundown when Aurelie approaches the Keeper’s tent, bathed in the veilfire of the mage’s studies. It’s sundown, the time when so many of her fellow _lethallin_ will begin to prepare their suppers, settling up their bedrolls and readying the children for sleep. Amidst supper, a familiar face had faded into her parents’ tent, lighting her way with a small plume of flame, bursting from her fingertips. The Keeper’s Second, surpassed in ranking only by her mother; a young man called Vesryn. He’d guided her, like light to a moth, to the Keeper’s tent, strikingly familiar as always.

“She’s got quite a liking to you, _da’mi,”_ he’d told her, eyes glancing towards her. Aurelie straightens her back, glaring back at him critically. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she asks you to lead the next Great Bear hunting trip into the Emerald Graves.”

“Oh, shut up,” Aurelie had scoffed, pushing Vesryn playfully, nearly knocking him off balance and into the clearing. “You’re full of hot air.”

“Not untrue,”he smirked, the green of his eyes dancing off the small flame, licking his fingers, “but regardless, you shouldn’t doubt yourself. Keeper Istimaethoriel has been talking about you leading an expedition for years.”

“And it’s never happened,” she’d reminded him coolly, her tone steely as frosted metal. “You’ll have to get used to the idea of having me here.”

His lips had pulled into a lopsided smirk - one that had constantly graced his mouth since childhood, when the two played carelessly in moon pools and picked Crystal Grace by the handful. “I could do that,” he’d said softly, the fire flickering more brightly, a livid blue head beating from its core.

The two exchanged a lengthy glance, eyes melded together until Aurelie breaks it, turning away with a scowl. Vesryn only laughs, another moment ruined by his unshakable childish disposition.

“On second thought, perhaps I will leave,” she’d supposes, grinning smugly to only herself. At that, the two came across the Keeper’s tent - drapings made of royal purple, a deep ink blot against the night sky - and entered, Vesryn closing his fist, extinguishing the flame instantly.

The Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel glances upwards at her, her vallaslin almost glittering in the light of the veilfire at her chair. She smiles, a tanned face framed by inked hair.

 _“Lethellan,”_ she greets, extending her arms outwards to offer a hug. Aurelie approaches graciously, accepting the gesture as Vesryn departs, slipping out of the tent without so much as a word. From over her shoulder, Aurelie can just catch his glance; an almost melancholy farewell between the two as he vanishes into the clearing. She offers a seat beside her, “It is so good to see you. It has been too long.”

“You asked to meet with me?” She inquires, accepting the seat.

The Keeper only smiles, placing her hands patiently on her thighs. Her warm eyes meet hers, the light of the veilfire dancing across her irises like scattered stars. She’s always had a fondness for Aurelie; whether it was for her tenacity and wit or her talent with a blade was always the mystery. “You were never one for formalities, _da’mi.”_

“Apologies,” Aurelie sighs, bowing her head slightly. “I didn’t mean to sound crude.”

“No apologies are needed,” she says with the softest of smiles. “It is wise to speak of this sooner, rather than later.”

Aurelie nods her head, “I’m listening.”

Istimaethoriel smiles wider, gingerly stepping away from her seat, sauntering towards the opening of the tent, where she looks out among the fields. They’d settled down in a soft spot of grass for the passing season, where the halla could graze in wide, open spaces, fenced in by only the mountains. She gazes past them, past the icy peaks, through the puffs of white clouds. Aurelie had always thought that the elders could see past the barrier between worlds; that they could see past the here and now, into the future and beyond. That had to be why they were so wise; she sees now that sometimes, they were simply lucky.

“Your mother, Tali’ah,” the Keeper begins, her breath heavy, laced with separate intentions hidden from the young elf’s sight. “She is a mage, is she not?”

It is less than a question than a reminder. It’s a song that’s been sung a hundred times before by her clan’s teachers - a story, begun with a question, void of answers, leaving the pupils to chase their tails aimlessly in search of the truth that seemed to vanish just as soon as it appeared. “Of course,” Aurelie says, unshaken. “She is your First. The best in our clan."

“And her magic,” she says tentatively. She draws back the curtain, the last rays of setting sun falling on her face as she turns around to glance at Aurelie. “You’ve grown up with it. You’ve seen what it can do.”

“Yes,” she remarks, nodding. Her bones stiffen underneath her skin, like the steely iciness of her blade.

“Then you realize that it is no more dangerous than your blade, if wielded properly,” she surmises. The sun melts against her face, her brown skin radiant in the glow of the horizon.

“I’ve never questioned the use of magic,” Aurelie defends, not quite understanding the meaning of the Keeper’s musings. “I’ve always supported its use. You know that.”

“I do not doubt that, _da’mi._ That is not why I’ve called you here,” she says softly, eyes meeting hers. She takes in a heavy breath, the meaning seeping through her teeth like running water. “I have received word from our spies.”

Aurelie’s eyes widen, the prospect of knowledge from the outside world a welcomed prospect. She’d lived among her clan for so long, the thought of others - living in cities, farms, thriving outside of their small, cloistered community - seemed a fickle and unsure thing. Yet, the idea thrilled and enticed her, left her feet dangling off the edge of a cliff, eager to dip into the unknown.

“And what do they say?” She wonders, toes curling in anticipation underneath their wrappings.

She pauses, parting her dry lips to breathe slightly. She glances towards the sun, eyes slit into small windows. “They send news that Divine Justinia seeks to heal the rift between mages and templars.”

Aurelie cocks a skeptical brow, eyes alive with curiosity and confusion. “She seeks to put an end to the war?” She says, taken aback by the weight of such a remark. “That’s...that’s impossible. How could she possibly imagine achieving such a thing?”

The Keeper smiles, walking slowly back towards her seat, where she sits, eyes focused on Aurelie’s face, wrought with concern. She’s grown, surely, but underneath it all, she is still the small child with the flicker of promise in her eye. “The conclave is meeting, in less than a fortnight. Whether or not you believe it is possible, _lethallan,_ the meeting will happen.”

“That is…” Aurelie takes a breath, a world of emotions swimming in her head. She supposes she should be overjoyed; too many times have the mages of her clan, her mother included, been the subject to cruel discrimination by outsiders - sometimes even the Dalish had their prejudices. But the thought of the templars ever agreeing to such a truce - the thought of it verged on unimaginable. She could not allow the Keeper to inspire such hope in her, only to tear it away. “That would be...wonderful. If it could happen.”

Istimaethoriel’s eyes widen in delight, “I’m pleased to see you agree. And you see,that is where I require your services.”

She blinks, slightly taken aback by the request. “You want me to kill someone?”

“No, of course not,” she says insistently, with a brash wave of her hands. “I need you because you are dedicated. More so than any of your peers, you know what the real world - your studies prove it.”

“I hardly believe I know more of the outside world than anyone else. I’ve rarely left the safety of our clan - my studies are only theoretical."

“Theory is devised so it can be put into practice, _da’mi.”_

 _Da’mi._ She winces. The name has grown old and tired against her ears; it’s a platitude on sugar-coated tongues, used to dance around the problem and soften her heart. It’s not going to work now.

“So what am I to do?” She asks, impatient. Her nails dig into her palms, creating livid dents in the shapes of half-moons. _“Study_ the templars into agreement?”

Istimaethoriel’s generous smile begins to fade, until it’s picked up again by a shake of her head, put securely back into place. She collects herself, “I know you are frustrated by the war, Aurelie. We all are - but you should have peace of mind. You should see what the conclave is doing to amend what they have caused all of Thedas.”

She grimaces, gazing at her with inquisitive eyes. “What do you mean?”

She straightens her back, focusing her piercing eyes on Aurelie’s. It’s rust on cobalt; the earth rushing for the sea. Brazenly, she reaches forward to take her hands in hers, running a thumb over her dented palms. _“Be my spy,_ Aurelie. Go to the conclave. See what the Divine has planned to aid the mages, and report it back to me,” she pleads, watching the hunter’s azure eyes grow wider with every letter. “The Dalish cannot be left in the dark like this while the rest of the world is privy to this information.”

Aurelie’s looks at her in shock, jerking her hands back into herself. “I…” she shakes her head, unable to put into words her opposition. “But I’m a hunter, not a spy. My specialty is not in sleuthing, Keeper, it’s in skinning fennecs and catching dinner.”

“Do not underestimate yourself, _da’mi._ I believe you are the only one suitable for this job.”

“But I don’t understand,” she remarks. “Send me to the Emerald Graves to hunt. I don’t have to _lead_ anything, I'll just follow. Send me to study in the Exalted Plains. I could be a valuable asset in recovering artifacts - somewhere where my talents would be _useful!_ I'm just not _suited_ , Keeper.”

She smiles, her eyes warm and familiar. She shakes her head as the hunter speaks, taking her hands again in the warmth of her palms. “Listen to me, Aurelie. You became a fully-fledged hunter when you were only six. I saw you strike a snowy wyvern with a poisoned blade, straight through its heart in a single swoop. You are the youngest to ever have received the _vallaslin_ in the history of our clan. You must understand that this is a job that I can only hand over to someone I deeply trust. And I trust in you and your abilities. You should be pleased - this is a great honor.”

She looks down, pensive. Her mouth hardens in a line, conflicted as a world of possibilities, good and bad, run amuck inside her skull.

“I need you, _da’mi,”_ she whispers, certain. “Clan Lavellan needs you.”

Aurelie looks up, her gaze as pointed as two crystal daggers. Her face is hard as rock, a cool stone, the blue veins of her vallaslin etched deeper in the heartbeat of the fire. She mindlessly takes the Keeper’s hands in hers, solid and steady as the earth below them.

“I’ll do it,” she says with a nod. “I’ll be your spy.”

Keeper Istimaethoriel smiles. The veilfire leaps for the sky, the light kissing their skin for luck.

***

Upon the hour the sun rises, Aurelie awakens, her bed in Haven cold and hard beneath her, yet a welcomed sight. The sunlight streams through her window, dancing flecks of dust settling at her feet as her vision focuses to make out a dish at her night stand - a familiar meal, made from the meat of a nug. She’d made the same food several times before, and her mother had done the same.

She sits up, taking the bowl in her hands carefully, taking the first sip and relishing in its familiar flavors as it swallows her stomach whole. The warmth fills her, from her gut to her fingertips. It’s soft. It’s familiar. It’s home.

She makes a note to thank Solas the next time she sees him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed some more clan lavellan!! i'm hoping to include much more of the backstories of lavellan and solas, so if that interests you, please tell me what you think!


	5. Hera, the Gambler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurelie thinks the "Herald of Andraste" is a heavy burden to carry on just her two shoulders alone. In a tavern in Redcliffe where nobody knows her name, perhaps it's a good place to forget.

In the next few weeks, the walls of Haven had increasingly filled up. New additions to the Inquisition appeared at every corner, from nearly each mission Solas accompanies the young Herald on. They’d picked up The Iron Bull and his Chargers off the Storm Coast, and their presence had been quickly felt by not only the other soldiers, but all other denizens of Haven with the capacity to hear their excitement over life, ale, and sex. Vivienne, or as Solas had known of her, Madame De Fur, seemed to float in almost unannounced; whatever sentiments she held for him were obviously unfavorable, considering the upturned nose and look of disdain every time they crossed paths. Warden Blackwall, too, seemed wary of him as well, but ironically appeared to warm up to him after he’d threatened to take his money in Diamondback. And most recently they’d made the unfortunate company of Sera, a young Elven woman in the form of shock of blonde, bubbly energy who seemed to have an ever growing penchant for testing Solas’s nerves.

Still, Aurelie never faltered. She assumed the role of Herald magnificently, always with grace and never pausing even for a second to contemplate her role in all of this. She willingly accepted it at every turn, a cause Solas both respected and could not understand.

Solas was pleased to accompany her on most missions. She requested the presence of as many as she could for different tasks, but she seemed to feel most at ease when she was in the company of himself, Varric, and Bull. He felt he only owed it to her to join her when she requested. It was no hassle; he actually enjoyed escaping the isolation of the stronghold, to where he could rejoin nature and wander freely, experiencing new regions to then revisit in his dreams.

Josephine had requested Aurelie’s presence in Redcliffe some time ago, but other matters such as requisitions seemed to occupy most of her time. But once Josephine insisted its urgency, Aurelie was happy to pack up her things and request the assistance of the three.

They’d been riding for about a day when they approached the Crossroads, setting up camp just on the outskirts of the small town. While Aurelie’s pitching the tents, Varric and Bull decide to wander off and fetch dinner, Bull’s longsword brandished proudly in the glimmer of the setting sun.

Solas dotes about his own possessions, setting his rucksack down and unpacking his bedroll for the night. He watches Aurelie from the corner of his eye, making note of every graceful movement - the way muscles under her arms tense when she raises the tent, the way her nimble fingers tie the ropes in place; even the way she stumbles and forgets herself seems to manifest itself in some beautiful mistake. She moves just as gracefully on the battlefield, her arms like branches in the wind, sharpened to a beautiful, deadly point.

“Do you require any assistance?” Solas finally asks.

She looks over her shoulder at him and shakes her head. A few strands have come loose from the intricate braid at the top of her head. “No, thank you. I’ve got it. I’ve grown up pitching these things.”

“Ah, of course. How could I forget?” Solas nods, smiling in understanding.

“Somehow I get the feeling you truly forget very little,” she remarks.

“You think too highly of me, then.”

She smirks, “Quite an ego on you,” she laughs, turning back to the tent. “Who said I was thinking about you at all?”

Solas would have blushed, if he was at all untrained to deflect such a comment. But not only was he well versed in what such a comment could mean, it surely wasn’t the first time Aurelie had made one. Her good humor had gotten her far in Haven, but her harmless flirting had not gone unnoticed. Still he smiles, suppressing any sort of other feeling that could have given rise. “You misunderstand,” he comments softly. “I only meant to insinuate that I’m as forgetful as anyone else.”

“Don’t worry,” she chuckles, shaking her head at his makeshift apology. “I was only kidding.”

Solas grins, shaking his head, amused. “Keep that sense of humor,” he says. “It’s sure to help in the weeks to come.”

“That’s exactly what Cassandra said,” Aurelie says, sighing heavily as she adjusts the tent, fiddling with the placement. She glances at him and smiles hopefully, “Speaking of: do you think the Breach has a sense of humor? Maybe I could tell it a few jokes to get it to cooperate.”

“If it does, it’s a quite sick and twisted one,” he retorts. Watching her from a distance, he quickly finds himself on his feet, making his way towards her, “Are you sure you don’t need help? These tents may be a different material than you’re used to…"

Aurelie’s about to refuse his help again, but without warning, he’s immediately at her side, closer than she can ever remember him being. His shoulder bumps into hers, his slender fingers brushing hers as they reach for the pole, digging it into the ground with ease, where Aurelie had found difficulty. She glances up at him, inches away and smiling with pride. He meets her gaze carelessly, “There we are,” he says.

She presses her lips into a stubborn line, “I could have figured it out, you know.”

“I’m sure you could have,” he says with a nod. “I was only trying to help.”

She manages to look away, putting some distance between the two. She nods, “...Thank you.”

He only smiles, quaint and fleeting, in response. The moment of silence is interrupted abruptly by the sound of loud, crushing leaves in the background, a path only able to be made by one person in mind.

“You two won’t believe what happened!” Bull exclaims, holding an entire ram in his arms as a prize. Solas and Aurelie look at him, exchanging a quick glance between themselves, a look of both confusion and amusement in their eyes. “Varric, go ahead, tell them.”

Varric shakes his head, slinging Bianca over his shoulder as he makes his way into the camp, “I think I’ll leave this one to you, big guy.”

Bull takes no time to delay in his story. “Well, all right. So Varric and I were walking off the path, looking for game, when we see this enormous bear going after old brown-eyes here” - he slaps the dead ram’s body with an affectionate hand, grinning mischieviously - “little did we know, there was also a band of rogue apostates hiding in the trees…”

“Iron Bull, I’m sure your story is riveting, but perhaps we can discuss it after we’ve eaten,” Solas suggests, parting from Aurelie’s side to make his way towards the Qunari. A breath of relief escapes her for a questioning moment, allowing her tense muscles to ease in his absence.

“I’m siding with Chuckles on this one,” Varric mutters, finding a seat atop a sideways tree trunk at the foot of their makeshift campfire. “Watching you slice up that ram really gave me an appetite.”

“I don’t know why we didn’t bring Aurelie - not only the Herald of fucking Andraste, but also professional assassin,” Iron Bull muses, throwing the carcass beside the foot of the campfire. Aurelie approaches with her dagger sheathed, glinting off her irses.

“Assassin is a strong word,” Aurelie scoffs, kneeling down to begin work. “Unless you count taking down a quillback an organized killing.”

“As long as you carve that shit up good, I don’t really care what title you’re using,” Bull comments, taking a spot beside Varric, laughing at his own crass comment.

Aurelie smiles, shaking her head as her hands tighten around the blade. Solas watches aside as she works; as her hands grow slick with blackish blood, her movements graceful and poison all at once. It’s her work, he muses, and her work is beautiful; careful. He knows what it is to find beauty in such tragedy; to scrounge for it, in any way you can.

***

Once the meal is finished, the ram stripped of its meat to the very bone, the matter of the tents seems to need resolving. Solas has all but disappeared as usual, wandered off contemplatively into the woods for a brief spell, leaving the three remaining companions to divide up the tents. Iron Bull and Varric are inclined to share one space, Bull giving the excuse that Varric’s size complements his well proportionately.

“You elves are a skinny fucking people,” he mentions. “You can take the smaller one. You and Solas can work it out.”

Aurelie, although the fabled Herald of Andraste, doesn’t quite feel like arguing with a Qunari mercenary over something as delicate as sleep. Nodding, she puts to rest all fretful thoughts, and unearths her bedroll from her things. It’s not until she’s nearly done, hunching over in order to avoid hitting the ceiling, that Solas climbs in, unannounced.

Startled, she turns around to see him, his rucksack slung across one shoulder, his bedroll in his other hand. He smiles wanly, “I’m sorry if I surprised you,” he says quietly. “It was not my intent.”

She frowns, shaking her head, “No, please. I’m fine,” she says. Though she was about to rest, she can’t deny her peaked curiosity. She watches distantly as Solas begins to undo his bedroll, a mere few inches away from her. She frowns, “Where is it that you go when you wander off like that?”

His eyes widen, surprised to hear such a question. He pauses to think, turning to her quizzically, “Why do you wish to know?” He asks, almost tauntingly.

“I’m just curious,” she explains, shrugging. “You make it seem so mysterious.”

He laughs, shaking his head, “I guarantee you, there’s nothing mysterious about it. I just enjoy having time alone to think.”

She frowns with stubborn curiosity, “Do you always need to be alone to think?”

“Properly, yes,” he says. “I quite enjoy solitude, under the right circumstances.”

“Then why join the Inquisition?” Aurelie retorts, grinning. “It’s a constant bombardment of people at all fronts. I can hardly blink an eye without someone reminding me of some kind of duty.”

“But you’re also the Herald of Andraste,” Solas says in a mocking tone, drawing a wicked smile at his lips. “The blessed hero sent to save us all.”

She quirks a brow, “Am I riding in on a shining steed?”

“I would have said a griffin,” he quips. He presses his lips into a fine smile, “But sadly, they are extinct.”

She smiles, sitting down atop her already made up bedroll, watching him as he works. “So why, then?”

He glances at her, a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes, “Why what?”

“Why join?” She asks, “That is, if you’re so well accustomed to solitude.”

His joints stiffen at the question, his knuckles branded white as he clenches the fabric of his blanket. He preoccupies himself with tidying up his area, fiddling about with the smallest of creases in the fabric to keep his mind from straying too far to the truth. “How could I stand by and do nothing when I know what I know?” He says matter-of-factly, as if it should have been obvious from the start. “It would be a waste of my knowledge. And I believe I have a duty."

“To fix the world?” She asks, eyes wide. “That’s a heavy burden to carry.”

He winces at her words, a familiar platitude on tired ears. He’d be annoyed, but he can’t quite summon the resolve. Instead he simply shifts his eyes towards her, his brows furrowed in concentration, “We bear a heavy price if no one dares fulfill it.”

She smiles hopefully, “Well, I hope you don’t feel as if you need to do it alone,” she hums, motioning to lay down. “We’re all here to reach the same goal. Bull, Varric, Cassandra, Blackwall, Cullen, Josie, Leliana - even Sera and Vivienne” - she looks away, eyes briefly tethered to the floor - “Myself included.”

He glances at her for a moment, because that’s all he allows himself. It’s exhausting, really, this cycle of self-discipline; of waiting and pining for a moment that can never be his, followed by a round of inevitable scolding for a different man’s wrongdoings. Still, he cannot allow him anything but that cycle; that endless repetition of inquiries he’s made to himself but can never quite answer. And so, a simple smile and nod must suffice.

She yawns, adjusting herself, turning her back towards him. Her silhouette is drawn across the drapings of the tent by the bright lamplight, etching her graceful curves against the leather. _“Hala'shevanis,”_ she says thoughtfully.

Solas has to stop himself from laughing. He knows what she’s trying to say - “the sweet sacrifice of duty.” But the words fall from her mouth as clumsily as a child. Quickly, however, she notices his laughter, peering at him curiously, “What?” She demands, “What is it?”

 _“Halam'shivanas,”_ he corrects her, in perfect Elvish.

She scrunches her nose in parodic annoyance, “Couldn’t you just humor me?”

“Perhaps I should send up some ancient Elvhen texts to your room along with your meals,” he suggests jokingly.

She smirks at him, “Oh, aren’t you just hilarious.”

He finds himself smiling. “Goodnight, _lethallan,”_ he mutters meagerly to her in response, snuffing the small flame, laying himself down on the bedroll. Moments later, he can hear Aurelie’s heavy breathing, falling in steady rhythms. It’s like a metronome - a constant, breathing force - something he can count on. A cause he can believe in. “And thank you."

She narrows her eyes, “For what?”

“For your friendship,” he says strongly, the word like a foreign spice on his tongue. “It is appreciated more than you know.”

“Don’t worry about it, Solas,” she says dismissively. “In fact, I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

He laughs to himself, into his bedroll. Softly, his eyelids fall over the slate gray irises, plunging him deep into his dreams, the Herald breathing softly beside him.

***

“Lavellan, you may need more than just some wine after that encounter,” Bull muses, leaning next to her, sweat and the smell of alcohol dripping off the walls of the Redcliffe tavern. A brief encounter with Magister Alexius and his corrupted sense of magic had left her stirred, seeking some sense of relief in a place other than the walls of Haven or a place where everyone knew her as the Herald. She needed a minute to breathe; to detach herself from her responsibilities, stacked on her shoulders like ancient tombs. "Although, it wasn't all _that_ bad. That Dorian wasn't too hard to look at."

“I think you’re right - about the first part, at the very least,” she murmurs, staring back into the small pitcher of red substance, glancing quickly at the brownish contents inside Bull and Varric’s mugs with longing. She shakes her head, “But I shouldn’t.”

“What?” Varric scoffs, tossing back a drink. “Afraid Chuckles will put you in time out?”

“If you’re not a just the littlest bit frightened of Solas, you’re not paying attention,” Bull says.

Aurelie smirks, shaking her head, “I’m not afraid of Solas.”

“Good to know that the Herald of Andraste can stand up for herself,” Varric laughs, sounding just the slightest bit tipsy.

She sighs, “It’s just…” she shakes her head, trying to fathom what it is that’s possessing her to turn down a tempting offer to forget her new found title. “It would be irresponsible of me. I have too many priorities and other duties to attend to. "

“Or,” Varric taunts, enjoying himself, “you just don’t want to upset your new best friend. You must’ve really bonded well in that tent.”

“Bonded is right,” Bull agrees.

She shakes her head, scoffing, pushing both Bull and Varric’s drinks away. “You two are insufferable when you’re drunk,” she snaps, stifling a grin. “Why don’t you go outside and ready the horses? I’d like to leave before you get so drunk you can’t ride yours.”

“Don’t think I don’t know how to ride, boss,” Bull suggests, picking himself up from his stool, gripping onto the table to keep his balance. Varric laughs, slapping him on the back as the two stumble out of the tavern, hardly sober enough to make it out in one piece. Aurelie sighs, laughing to herself as she finishes off her drink, readying herself for departure.

“Alone, are you?”

Aurelie turns around, all too suddenly meeting the eyes of a stranger. His accent is thick, obviously Ferelden, and his clothes say he’s common. Possibly a field hand, not good enough to be a farmer. His hair is thick and matted, yellow like hay bales, his teeth like crooked tombstones.

She shakes her head, “My friends are outside. I was about to join them.”

He takes a seat beside her, seemingly ignorant to what she’d only just said. “It’s dangerous for a pretty girl like you to be out here, all on your own. Why don’t I buy you a drink?”

“I believe she can take care of herself.”

Aurelie turns over her shoulder to see a looming presence, lingering over her like a shadow. Solas is standing beside her, eyes locked on the Ferelden like those of a bird of prey’s.

“Hey,” the man insists, laughing off the tones of severity in the elf’s tone, as if they were nothing. “I wasn’t sayin’ she couldn’t. Just thought she’d want a little company."

“We were actually just leaving,” Solas insists, his voice an icy steel blade against his ears. He places a tense hand on Aurelie’s shoulder, “We have a long ride ahead, Hera-”

“Wait,” Aurelie nearly bursts from the seams all at once, stopping Solas entirely. She turns to him, a pleading look on her face, “We can stay around for a little bit, can’t we, Solas?”

He looks back at her in explicit confusion, unsure entirely of her purpose. But her eyes are begging, and he can’t simply deny her. She quickly takes his silence for compliance, and in one swift motion, she takes a hold of his wrist and pulls him onto the stool beside her. She leans against the table, meeting the smiling face of the Ferelden stranger.

“So,” she murmurs, deep in thought. “You don’t know who I am?”

He looks surprised by the question. He shakes his head, “Should I?” He wonders aloud. “The bald one over there said your name was Hera, yeah? I reckon that counts for something.”

Aurelie’s eyes widen, a feeling of complete relief washing over her. He didn’t know who she was - no one in this tavern did. For once, she felt the armor strapped to her back fall from her shoulders, shedding like an unwanted skin. The title, the responsibilities, everything - gone from her mind, if only for a moment.

“Yes,” she says, her voice a chipper singsong. “I’m Hera, and this is my friend…” -she turns to Solas, his eyes wide and eager to see her next movement, and her trying to properly pin him down into one easy word - _“Elgar."_

He glances between the two suspiciously, “So, if you don’t mind me asking...you Dalish, or from an Alienage? You got them tattoos on your face, but he don’t.”

Aurelie freezes, caught in her own trap until Solas opens his mouth. “She is Dalish, but I was raised in the Redcliffe Alienage.”

“Funny,” he muses, frowning. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

“I left at an early age to travel,” he explains, as if it were as simple as just that. He smiles at Aurelie, their eyes locking, “and that is where I met Hera.”

Aurelie smiles back at him, an almost mutual understanding passing telepathically between the two. Immediately, the Ferelden looks like he’s intruding. He frowns, “Oh, sorry - are you two...well, I mean, are you both -”

“- We’re only friends,” Aurelie remarks, smiling pleasantly. Solas tenses beside her, but she makes no note of it.

“Well, then,” he says with a growing smile, “let’s all be friends, and I’ll order you two drinks. On me.”

Solas frowns suspiciously, “That’s quite kind of you, but we -”

“- Would be happy to take you up on such a generous offer.”

The Ferelden smiles in response, leaning over the counter to place his order. Quickly, Solas takes Aurelie by the shoulder, his lips nearly touching her ear, “Just what is it you think you’re doing?”

She grimaces, “I’m having fun,” she tells him stubbornly. She turns to meet his eyes, two stones staring at her from underwater, “You should try it.

His eyes widen at her response, not so much unexpectant of her response, but all the same surprised by it. He tries to relax himself as she does when the young man returns, holding three pitchers of ale precariously in his arms, sliding each one across the counter to both Aurelie and Solas.

“I’m Wren, by the way,” he says, his mouth landsliding into a crooked smile. He takes a heady swig of his ale, never stopping to wipe the grime from the whiskers of his blonde beard, “So, what brings you here? Usually we don’t get pretty little things like you around this old place.”

Aurelie glances towards Solas; not for approval, but rather to gauge his patience. His knuckles are are white, clutching the pitcher tightly but never drinking from it. His jaw is hardened, his lips set in a harsh line as his eyes bore holes into Wren’s drunken facade. She turns back to him, smiling, deciding instantly to play along, “I left my clan a while back. I’ve been wandering around place to place ever since. I’ve been here, in the Hinterlands, for about a week.”

“You ought to be careful,” Wren advises cautiously. “A little thing like you out there, I worry for your safety. It gets real dangerous ‘round certain parts.”

Aurelie’s eyes wander off, catching the attention of a small commotion towards the back of the tavern, where several bulky men with topped off pitchers are throwing knives. She smiles, an idea coming to mind as her eyes fall back on Wren, his grin sloppy and naive as ever. “What is it that they’re doing over there, exactly?”

“Oh, them?” Wren scoffs, glancing over his shoulder. He shakes his head, “Nothing you’d be interested in. Gamblin’ away their money at throwin’ knives.”

“Maybe they could give me and Elgar a few tips,” Aurelie suggests, gesturing to Solas. She smiles painlessly, looking to him with glassy, eager eyes. “I’d love to learn how to defend myself, wouldn’t you?”

The hint of a smirk pulls at his lips, nodding so slightly it’s hardly noticeable. He glances at Wren, stoic and expressionless, “Whatever pleases you,” he pauses for a moment, the name dangling off his tongue like a strange taste, _“Hera.”_

Wren looks at the two, shocked, but willing. He shrugs, “Well, I’m not one to deny a lady’s request,” he says, grinning sly. He gestures for her to walk ahead of him to the back of the bar, cutting in between her and Solas, a greedy hand lingering at her waist as he shows her the way. Solas’s hands tighten into fists, his annoyance turning to white hot rage.

“Boys!” He hollers, grabbing the attention of the entire bar. A group of about five or so men turn to look at the trio, daggers dangling effortlessly from their fingertips. “This is Hera. She’s new ‘round these parts and thinks it’d be good to learn a thing or two about throwin’ knives.”

“That so?” One of them chokes, leaning back in a rickety wooden chair, his laughter echoing off the walls. He spins a dagger in his hand as if it were second nature, “Don’t mean to discourage you, lil’ lady, but this isn’t exactly for just anyone.”

“Wait there just a minute,” another voice calls out. A tall, brooding figure stands from his chair, wearing a head of hair like a horse’s mane, tied back at the nape of his neck. He moves towards her, casting a heavy shadow over her from several heads above. His eyes watch her like black ice, another story lying beneath the surface. “We shouldn’t deny this lovely woman and her friend the benefits of defending oneself, should we?”

The others shut up, looking down at the ground in an almost shameful way. The man grins, extending a hand towards her, a knife lying in his palm. “Why don’t you try throwing one of these at that wall over there?” - he points to the wall adjacent to them, a good six feet away - “Try and make it stick.”

Aurelie glances towards Solas briefly, exchanging a knowing glance. She smiles bashfully towards the man, taking the knife. She stammers feebly, “Well, I don’t know if I -”

“- Come on now,” he encourages, smiling. “It’s not that hard. Just give it a go.”

She smiles wanly, nodding in agreement. Facing the wall, she flicks her wrist forward, and the rest watch as the knife awkwardly sticks towards the bottom of the wall, barely making an indent. She smiles, throwing a dramatic fist in the air, “I did it! I made it stick!” She cries in falsified amazement, a look of pure joy etched into the lines of her face.

Solas watches in confusion as she rejoices, skeptical. The man gives her a pat on the back, smiling with her, “Amazing work, for a first-timer,” he applauds. He glances back at his men, giving a learned wink before he turns back to her, “Why don’t we make things a bit more interesting?”

Aurelie fakes surprise. “More interesting. How?”

“Maybe bet a few gold that you can pin the apple over the top of that cupboard?” He suggests, pointing across the room, about fifteen feet and twenty people away. It’s a small target, about as small as a fly from this angle. “I think you’ve got a real gift. So - what do you say?”

Aurelie glances at Solas, his eyes wide and expressive with immediate understanding. She grins at him, glancing back at the gambler with a innocent grin, “I say, you’re on.”

He grins, clapping his hands together, “That’s what I like to hear! What a trooper,” he says, swiping another knife from the table, handing it to her with a crooked smile. “A hundred gold says you can’t make it.”

Aurelie nods at him, taking the knife with ease. The handle molds into her palm, an extension of herself that’s all too familiar in her calloused hands. It feels like coming home, this thing; like remembering an old dream, a forgotten melody only remembered when it’s picked up again in tune. It’s not a thing she can forget.

Slowly, she breathes in, drawing her arm back like a bow and arrow - and just like that, she releases, flicking her wrist like the wings of a sparrow. In the blink of an eye, every man in the tavern turns to see the spot, fifteen feet away, where the apple above the cupboard is now pinned to the wall by a six inch blade.

Smiling, she turns around to the gambler, their mouths hung wide open in shock. Eyes wide and glazed over, the bag of coins in their hands falls to the table with a surprised thump. Aurelie leans over, swiping it with ease. She grins towards the towering stranger, seeming a couple heads shorter now, his shadow shrunken.

She grins at him, tucking the gold away under an arm. She takes a swift step forwards, eyes pinned to his. “A hundred gold says I can,” she whispers.

He stares back in complete awe, and Wren stumbles backwards, holding a hand over his trousers to conceal himself. Aurelie turns to Solas, a wild grin on her face, taking him by the arm and rushing out towards the exit.

In her hurry, she’s laughing, _cackling_ , even, her voice so full of joy and life and love that it moves Solas to his very core. He can’t help but smile when she’s smiling, laugh when she’s laughing, so much so that all personal convictions seem to be pushed aside, if only for a moment.

“That was...unprecedented,” he says through jolts of laughter as they stumble out of the tavern, the gold rustling in her arms with every step. “I think you left the entire tavern in shambles. They may have to rebuild Redcliffe as a whole.”

“Thank you for standing by me, Elgar,” Aurelie laughs, patting him affectionately on the shoulder. She grins up at him, a grin that could move Solas to do anything - even hustle money from a particularly muscled group of men. “Your assistance was invaluable.”

“Quick thinking, on your part. _Elgar,”_ he says, smiling in understanding. _“Spirit._ How clever.”

She laughs, “It just spoke to me.”

He shakes his head, still stifling his laughter as he turns to her, unable to fight even the small smile that stains his lips. “That whole act in there - at the beginning, with that...detestable drunk. You wanted to forget your responsibilities as the Herald. To pretend to be someone else.”

Her grin falters, eyes pinned to the road ahead. She nods her head solemnly, “I had a life before the Inquisition. A life I’m not sure I want to leave behind just yet,” she says. She glances at Solas, “I didn’t ask for all these responsibilities. For these duties. I’m not saying they don’t belong to me - that I’m not honored to serve and protect Thedas. I just think sometimes I’d rather forget.”

Solas straightens his posture, tilting his head up towards the night sky, breathing in the aroma of the crushed leaves and the pines. The moonlight seems to invigorate him, make him lucid in its presence. “I understand why you did what you did,” he says, nodding. “But you must understand that forgetting who you are is only a temporary solution to a much greater issue. Although we may try, we cannot bury the very parts of us that make us who we are. Though you are not defined by the mark on your hand, you do bear the responsibilities it grants you. How you chose to fulfill such a duty or not is entirely up to you” - he turns to her, his eyes black in the night - “you must only remember that it is still a part of you. And whatever parts of ourselves we bury always seem to have a way of crawling their way back to the surface.”

Aurelie gazes at him, eyes wide and understanding. She smiles faintly, reaching a hand to graze his arm, “Thank you, Solas,” she says. “If I was going to hustle with anyone, I am glad it was with you.”

A low chuckle comes from the back of his throat, smiling faintly. “I am pleased to hear you say that,” he says. “Although, I must confess, I’m not much of a gambler. Not anymore.”

“That’s why you need a partner,” she reminds him, taking a quick step ahead of him, glancing at Varric and Bull in the distance, still struggling to mount their horses. She runs after them, the coins jangling in her hands, holding it above her head like a trophy as the both their eyes’ widen like saucers as they see it glistening in the moonlight. And Solas can’t help but smile.

_A partner. Yes._

It doesn’t sound so bad at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> such a late update SORRY !! but i hope you enjoyed nonetheless!  
> i love writing these filler chapter and i love writing bitchy sassy female leads so expect more of both


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